By Mark Miner
As a finger in the water leaves a ripple quickly gone So my life in all its order may alight as night at dawn Thus I do not cling too tightly to the baubles all about And I thank my Maker nightly for dissolving any doubt that my days fly like a shadow, and they wither as the grass, and the reddest of my battles will grow cold and it will pass If I look upon the heavens, see the stars all whirling round, If I lay my face to earth and smell the growth within the ground, I give praise to God who made them, who laid their pillars down, who founded them and staid them, made them glories of His crown, and I know that I will perish, and am nothing in their sight, but upon the ground I cherish, and beneath the jeweled night I will live my life for glory (not to us, O Lord, to thee), I will spin it out, a story, 'til the end of it and me. |
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
A Short Story by Mark Miner
Tell a tale of purity Sing a song of white Trace the form of chastity Plumb the depths of light
A sea of cherries tossed about them. They punted from stall to stall, swimming in the burgundy tide, intoxicated by the odors wafted from this side of that. The breeze off the lake was crisp, and it poured a cherry cocktail over their heads, sparkling and delicious. They held hands as the walked, he eating cherries with his right and she with her left. Hubbub or no, theirs was the day, and a small universe was theirs, with only their bodies in orbit, and cherries spread like planetary rings.
From time to time she would lean on his shoulder, rubbing her long nose on the soft flannel, and he would turn his head a bit, lean down, and kiss the top of hers. She was his, only for the weekend now, but they talked freely of marriage, children, and a life poured out of their lips, splashed on the passers-by, and flowed into the cataract of conversations all around them. Two months had separated them, though they had spoken and written, but two months is an eon for young love. An outsider might have assumed there would be no fresh news, given the frequency of their communications, but that outsider has not loved a twenty-one-year-old girl.
School was good, yes, it was a hard semester, but two more and they'd be done, free to do whatever it is that students think graduates do. Certainly get married, oh yes, immediately! Forthwith! Without delay! Maybe June? July might be better, a little more time to plan. Did she have to do a recital that semester? Yes, she did, and he had accreditation exams, so maybe July. They wouldn't pine too much between May and July, right? Ha! Pining knows no reason, no bounds, no minimums. Yes, he would miss her when she had to go. Terribly so. Why couldn't she stay the week? Your parents.
Cool air from the lake flowed between them for the first time that day. They looked at cherry baskets on opposite sides of the path for a few minutes. She shivered, and it looked like the Michigan breeze was convincing her Arizona skin to crawl.
A few words were sent out, like heliographs between their mountains, instantly spoken and so distant. She said she needed to go back to her hotel and get ready for the opera that night, and he should make sure to look fabulous. But fabulous fell off her lips like they were numb and it was an icicle. He kissed her on the cheek, and his lips were dry and cool.
***
Black and purple draped from her slim body, rubies in her ears (that he had given her on an anniversary), and gracing the very air around her with her perfume, she was stunning. Her hair cascaded down behind one bare shoulder, and a titanium brooch held the dress straps to the other. Elevator doors glided open, and she tripped lightly on her metallic-toned heels into the lobby. They matched the brooch, and her pocketbook. She was radiant, eyes sparkling with forgiveness for the afternoon, and cherry-colored lips ready to seal the pardon with a kiss.
He wore black, trimmed with a gold tie, pocket square, and cufflinks. His mane of blond hair set off the formality of his dress, and on net he came across as handsome and a bit gawky. He rose from the bench in the lobby, and met her in two steps. He took her arm, a bit stiffly, and they headed for the curb. Toyotas are a poor stand-in for a coach-and-four, but the lady conducted herself royally as he opened her door. No words passed on the short drive to the theater, and she serenly reposed in the pleasure of their finery.
Puccini came and went, and as the curtain fell on the bohemians in Paris (whom she thoroughly admired and sought to emulate), she caught a fraction of a frown on his face. Theatergoers bore them outdoors again, the second human tidal motion they had drifted in today, and they walked arm in arm through the storefronts, Lampposts feebly competed with the northern summer sun, and they found a cafe with a quiet booth by a mirrored wall, looked out an a reversed Lake Michigan. The sun went down over wine, a few cheeses, and more cherries. Northern sunsets made her a little sad. They just winked out, no fuss, no muss, no blood-red dust. Most of the moon appeared over their entree. She had duck, and the meat was the color of tiger's-eye, rich, and delicious. He picked at a steak, medium-well.
Small words had ventured out onto the field, playing warm-up with talk about Puccini, the food, the night, the moon. She daubed her full lips with the napkin, put it down, and asked him:
"Are you alright?"
"Hmm?"
"You, are you alright?"
"Hmm. I think so. Why?"
"The corners of your eyes are down to your collar, and your mouth is trying to follow. What's wrong?"
"We need to talk."
A boa constrictor coiled up around her chest. She slowed her breathing, and took a sip of wine. "What about?" The sunshine in her voice was canned, saved up for just such an occasion.
"You know, this afternoon, we were talking. About life, and us, and stuff." He was drawing triangles in the A-1 on his steak.
"Uh-huh...?" Her voice got lower. Still pert.
"Look, I love you, or I think I do. I don't know. My parents don't want this to happen. I don't know why. Maybe I want it. I don't know anymore. They had some good points. I don't know what you're gonna do with your degree. We want different things. We argue sometimes. I don't know." He let out a sigh with the rest of his air. He took a deep breath, and inhaled some water.
"Dearest, I love you. I know I do. I'm not sure what you want, but I want you." Her voice was low. It was even, but it was even like a tray of marbles. Any motion and it would go.
"I think we should break up. I need to figure myself out, and you need to figure yourself out. We don't really know anything, we're so young. It would just be better...for now." He slumped in the booth.
"Sweetie, that's your parents talking." A marble wobbled.
"Maybe, but maybe they're right. Anyway, look, this is hard for me, too!"
"Oh?" She smiled. She had beautiful lips, but right now they were a chalice of poison.
"Oh don't." He said. "Look, here's some money, it's plenty. For dinner. The hotel's down the block. I gotta go." And he rose, and he turned, and he strode out the door, half-striking it with a shoulder as he passed.
The marbles moved now. She held her pocketbook up over her eyes and her nose ran down a quivering lip. She traded the pocketbook for the napkin, and fired three short sobs into it. Composing herself, she rose and went to the bathroom. Finding the farthest stall, she cried for six minutes. Their waitress came in.
"Honey, you alright?"
"uh huh" she sniffed loudly.
"You just take your time, honey. You need anything?"
"no, thanks" she sniffed again.
Ten more minutes had her back together enough to fix up her makeup and return to the table. The check was there, zeroed out, with a broken heart and the words "feel better, hon" penciled on it. She smiled. This one was real, and she was beautiful again.
The cloying cherry scent fought her all the way back to the hotel. She checked in on her flight the next morning, and fell asleep in her dress, sprawled out in her finery, a wounded bird, beautiful and alone.
|
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
On Starry Nights
Mark Miner
On starry nights
you strain your neck
to see the lights
the tiny specks
so high above
and far away
the moon alone
was lit today
and all the rest
poured out their rays
in ancient past
do they still blaze?
The star I sing
that guides me north
is it alight?
does it hold forth
its eloquent expended beams
down to today?
Perhaps it seems
alive, but death
is hiding light years hence and I
will be bereft of breath
and who will see it die?
Ex Terra
Mark Miner
Have you knelt?
have you felt
recently
the earth?
The soil beneath
of which you are,
my friend,
and I, too.
It does no good
to ignore your roots
nor those of God's green weald
so pause
and press the clods
the little fibers of past lives hold it together,
then it crumbles.
Pay attention,
there's much to learn here
as it returns to dust
so will you
so will I
so do you good to it before you die
consider,
you're making your bed. |
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
By Mark Miner
1) She was of medium height, the kind of half-cute that can experience moments of true beauty, and she was smiling now, and it worked. It was infectious. My wife and I smiled, too, and politely chatted as she rang up our order. It was a slow night, and three other cashiers were draped across chairs behind her, laughing as one recounted a truly awful relationship, how it ended badly, and had ruined her. She was smiling. Her cohorts laughed sincerely at the appropriate times, and I was sure our cashier would join them in their circle of delight after we left. Our order was not big, but two people offered to help on the way out the doors and into the warm autumn evening.
2) Her name was Annette, and she was young and gorgeous. On this my wife and I agreed. Her svelte black pants, blue-and-red uniform polo, and cap, could not be more perfectly arranged. You could see her smile, like a road flare, lighting up the drive-thru lane. The whole experience was dreamlike and inchoate, tied together only by a cheerful voice, that brilliant smile, and Annette's true and burning desire to get each and every person exactly the food they wanted, as quickly as her dear soul could. And she succeeded. On all levels, in all ways, Annette, the impossibly, refreshingly sweet carhop, succeeded in life.
3) He was enormous. Not overly fat, but wide, like a tugboat. He could very well have had a career as a tugboat, if he could have walked on water. He greeted my wife as "young lady", which might have been correct. He greeted me as "young man", which was not. He greeted the middle-aged man behind me as "young man", which was entirely delightful. His pleasure in life, as far as I could tell, consisted in making sandwiches. He wanted to know you, what you liked, what you disliked, and why. He made jokes, which were funny even if they weren't. He made friends with you over the course of a minute, and you valued him as a friend and confidant for the next two, at which time he would bid you a cheerful farewell, and you knew that you and he would be happy the next time you met.
|
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
1) May God give peace to the families, and justice to the perpetrator.
2) Brava to the policewoman who put a stop to it, may she recover quickly.
3) At least 43 rounds were fired, reportedly from 2 handguns, which requires planning and some dexterity.
4) He was a Major, obviously had been in for a while, and had not considered how to deal with a deployment to one of the nations we've been operating in for 6 years?
5) Any suggestion that "He was driven to this by an uncaring Army" is nonsense. If you want to get out of a deployment and you have no respect for life, attempt suicide. You can even deliberately botch it. You will not be going overseas after that.
Conclusion: This was a premeditated, sociopathic act. Speculation about cause or blame has very little place in such a situation.
Application: Spare a prayer for the families. Execute the perp, if he lives.
That is all.
MJM
|
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
New Advocacy Group Claims Birthers "Miss the Obvious"
PHOENIX - (AP)
A group of irate citizens calling themselves "Existers" are causing a stir by claiming that President Obama simply does not exist. Their arguments draw from portions of the "Birther" campaign, The Emperor's New Clothes, and the award of a Nobel Peace Prize. Karen Clatchner, a self-described "hard-core exister", sums up their views: "Look, if he wasn't born, he can't be real! And all through the campaign, all you heard was 'unbelievable', 'he's just out of sight', and that he was 'a dream come true'. All we're saying is this: it never came true." When asked how the Nobel Prize figured into the group's arguments, Ms. Clatchner cocked her head, blew a raspberry, and said "So the Swedes recognized him? Honestly? You think that helps?"
The reaction of Americans has been mixed. A telephone survey found that 94% of Americans had never seen the President except on TV, and 90% of respondents acknowledged that they don't always believe the TV. Of the 6% who claimed to have seen the President, all admitted "it was from a long way away", and that they were "very excited at the time". Psychologists universally acknowledge the role that excitement can play in causing humans to accept erroneous information, such as "After-Thanksgiving Sales".
The President could not be reached for comment. |
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
From a trip this past winter, not sure why I did not post it before.
Impressions on Boston and San Francisco
By Mark Miner
Chipped enamel lays bare the cold cast metal below
ragged edge on a banister
chiseled by carelessness
It is Boston in February
and the world is chilled
and snow is coming.
Spooning on the stoop of a rundown house
street man and street woman
Adam and Eve in the junkyard of Eden
waiting for the cool of the day to talk with God
the Pacific salts the air to perfection
as I fast-walk past this primeval pair
enjoying a fine evening in San Francisco.
|
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
By Mark Miner, upon return from his vacation.
See the hills swoop
sculpted by wind and God
now rolling, now plunging
wallows and ridges
cottonwood skyscrapers
greedily guzzling from lazy streams that don't mind in the least
That kind of country don't mind in the least
Come outside
relish the sun
be permeated by the prairie wind
let it flow between your molecules
until you are fresh
hung out on God's clothesline
to air out
in Wyoming
|
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
By Mark Miner
Y'all listen here, people,
Got a story to tell,
'Bout how love of money,
Is a ticket to hell.
Well I got the blues,
Yeah I got the blues,
I got the fluorescent-cold-office-corporate-America-blues.
Oh yeah.
You young whippersnappers,
You looking so fine,
Dressed up for your interview,
At the end of the line.
Oh you'll get the blues,
Like I got the blues,
You'll get the worked-so-hard-learned-so-much-just-to-sit-in-a-cube blues.
That's right.
You wizened old creatures,
With your sweaters and tea,
You spent your whole life,
For this cold company.
Now you got the blues
Just like I got the blues
You got the gave-your-health-to-get-wealth-and-a-retirement blues
Mm-hmm
We all got the blues
The corporate blues
We got the sunny-day-stuck-inside-wish-I-could-go-and-play blues
So bad. |
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
Ten Things Engineers Cannot Live Without, and Why
A list, by Mark Miner
10) Sweater. Because offices are inordinately cold. Why must we have numb hands?
9) Calipers. They afford a lot of fun measuring your tape dispenser, phone handset, monitor, mouse, and occasionally some useful parts.
8) MS Paint. Because they (or you) were too cheap to get a real graphics program, and you have a presentation in an hour.
7) 5 of each writing implement. Because you will lose at least 3 of them.
6) Whiteboard. A picture's worth a thousand words, and you can doodle on it.
5) Set of files. Because you screwed up the design, but now you're out of money and that hole has to line up. Get ready for sore hands.
4) Hammer. Because you REALLY screwed up this time. Seriously, don't you have calipers?
3) Lunch. Do you need to ask?
2) Other engineers. Because you have to sneer at the idiocy of SOMEBODY.
1) Coffee & mug. Almost doesn't deserve to be articulated, it's so fundamental. On the other hand, you'd never do work before noon without it.
PS- Not sure why I degenerated to list making. I'll just say it's a low-brainspace way of easing back into the blog. We'll see. |
|
|
|
| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
